


Ginsberg

by DictionaryWrites2



Series: ☀️☀️☀️ Prompt Minifills [30]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Poetry, Semi-Public Sex, Top Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 05:36:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18794044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites2/pseuds/DictionaryWrites2
Summary: Aziraphale’s cheeks are burning with red heat, his eyes wide, and he has one of his plump, lovely palms pressed tight against his mouth, his finger and thumb gripping tightly enough at his own jaw that Crowley can see the flesh dimple.His legs are crossed. Tightly.Crowley grins.





	Ginsberg

**Author's Note:**

> 🌞 ahh a/c, public sex, top crowley?

Crowley has been, mostly at Aziraphale’s behest, to at least a thousand poetry readings in his lifetime. Probably more than that, actually. Thousands and  _thousands_  of them. And he isn’t opposed to poetry! Poetry is fine. Sometimes, it’s even good. He and the angel tend to differ on what  _exactly_  is good, but that’s fine, that’s just fine.

And tonight–

Well.

Tonight is different. 

It’s a year after the almost-apocalypse. It’s a year and a half since they last went to a poetry reading. And right now? Aziraphale is  _squirming_  in his seat, and Crowley is fascinated. 

His chin is rested against his palm, his fingers against his lips, and he watches Aziraphale, whose gaze is fixated on the young man on the stage, who is reading from, of all people,  _Ginsberg_. He and Aziraphale have fought about Ginsberg for a little under forty years: ordinarily, Aziraphale (and Crowley, too, although he’d be much more ready to admit to it) has a habit of taking outsiders into his heart, and always has a deep affection for poets… He’d  _sobbed_  over Oscar Wilde, after the trial and after he’d died, but Ginsberg has never appealed to him.

_He’s obscene, Crowley._

_Yes, angel, that’s what the trial’s for._

_Oh, the trial! Ridiculous! He oughtn’t be **on trial** , obviously, but I just say from a place of personal preference that I really– No, I just don’t see all that focus on…_

_Sex?_

_Yes! Sex! It’s excessive!_

But now…?

Aziraphale’s cheeks are burning with red heat, his eyes wide, and he has one of his plump, lovely palms pressed tight against his mouth, his finger and thumb gripping tightly enough at his own jaw that Crowley can see the flesh dimple. 

His legs are crossed.  _Tightly_.

Crowley grins. 

“Angel,” he says, when the lad finishes, and Aziraphale turns to look at him, his eyes widening a little more.

“Hm?” he asks, like he’s frightened to actually open his mouth to talk. 

Crowley stands, and he gestures for Aziraphale to follow him, which he hesitates before so doing: their fingers interlink as Crowley leads Aziraphale by his hand out of the bar. It makes  _sense_ , of course, that some poetry is in a slightly different perspective now. He and Aziraphale have embarked on a  _few_  new journeys in the past year, and sex is part of it, sex is a  _big_  part of it–

“Oh, dear boy, what are we  _doing_?” Aziraphale asks as Crowley drags him into the little supplies cupboard, and Crowley pulls him up into a hard kiss, and Aziraphale gasps into his mouth, shuddering and leaning up against Crowley’s body. He is all but  _trembling_ , and Crowley grabs at his arse through the grey fabric of his trousers, and Aziraphale lets out a heady noise against Crowley’s mouth.

“Bend over,” Crowley says.

“ _Crowley,_ we can’t, what if someone–”

“You just got hot and bothered at a  _poetry_  reading, angel:  _bend over_.”

Crowley doesn’t wait for him to argue: he manhandles Aziraphale and shoves him up against one of the shelves, ignoring the clink of bottles against one another, and Aziraphale heaves in a gasp, but he doesn’t complain. 

“You get it now, huh, angel?” Crowley hisses in his ear, and he bites at the back of his neck, feeling Aziraphale’s legs spread apart before his knees even as he  _whimpers_. “I remember, I read you  _Please Master_ , and you just stared at me the whole time, all blank-faced and  _snooty_ , and now–”

“Oh, no, no, Crowley, you mustn’t–”

“ _Please master can I touch your cheek / Please master can I kneel at your feet_ –”

“Oh,  _Crowley_ , I’m too weak for poetry right now, I,  _oh_ –”

Crowley laughs against the back of his neck, his tongue flickering out and catching at his earlobe, and Aziraphale heaves in a noise as Crowley gets his hand down the back of his trousers, dipping between his arsecheeks and delighting in the  _wail_  Aziraphale lets out. 

“Someone’s going to hear us, Crowley–”

“Oh, no, no, darling,” Crowley purrs, “they’ll only hear  _you_.” Aziraphale moans as Crowley twists his wrist, his thighs falling open as he leans heavily on the shelves. “ _Please master can I loosen your blue pants–”_

“Oh, Crowley, don’t tease me,” Aziraphale begs, and Crowley drags hard at his trousers, pulling them down along with Aziraphale’s  _stupid_ , old-fashioned breeches, and then he drops to his knees. 

Aziraphale is lucky Crowley thought to soundproof the little room  _as_  he’d entered, because with  _this_ noise, he certainly would have forgotten if he’d left it in any later. 


End file.
